


Burn the Witch

by Pyukumukus



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mental Instability, Psychological Trauma, Survivor AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 01:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16108136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyukumukus/pseuds/Pyukumukus
Summary: A miracle fragment of October 6th,1986 was awarded to the victorious.The breathing bodies of Ushiromiya Battler and the witch he dragged from the Golden Land washed up on the Nijima shore. With the likelihood of 1/999999 occurrence, Ushiromiya Ange should be grateful for Bernkastel's prize.But by design of Fate, this fragment would surely prove that the Witch of Miracles is the cruelest witch of all.---Survivor AU; Battler, Yasu, and Eva live. Life doesn't get easier for Ange.





	Burn the Witch

 

Ange recalled that the witch did not speak for the first two years she lived with them.

 

Had she then been a witch? Ange was not so sure-- years later, Beato’s creator would attest that a witch was not a witch unless someone acknowledged her. In those gray years from 1986 to 1989, a single man believed that Yasuda Sayo was a witch, and that man was an idiot. 

 

_ It takes two to create a universe _ : it was another aphorism of Beato’s invention. One could say that Beato had not been a witch unless  _ two people _ saw her. The idiot saw and saw and saw, but Yasuda Sayo did not. 

 

According to those rules, for those two years, the witch did not exist. In her place, there was only a ghost. 

 

* * *

 

When the time came for Ange to return home, Battler accompanied her.

  
Her hand had been enveloped by his fingers as they walked down the familiar streets of her neighborhood. Battler squeezed her palm tightly, his nail digging into her skin. Ange didn’t mind-- Battler’s grip was welcomed by a girl whose fears of abandonment plagued her with night terrors. She only recently conceptualized death. It was difficult. She was afraid. Her parents had gone away, and their return was uncertain. Neither of their bodies would be allowed eternal rest in the Western coffins Grandfather had promised them. It was the Ushiromiya way to lay the dead to sleep.    
  


That their corpses hadn’t been found gave Ange comfort, but Onii-chan was quick to destroy the fragile fantasy of her parents’ return. It was a cold and bitter truth. Years later, Ange understood Battler’s brutal denial of their resurrection-- he wouldn’t allow her to suffer through the pain of hope. At age six, it made her cry and cry and cry. 

Battler came back from Rokkenjima a coarser man. Ange would ask if he was sure her mother and father were dead, and Battler didn’t need to speak for her to know. She could see certainty reflected in his eyes, eyes which had grown cold from abhorrent sights. Ange would discover a decade later that Battler had seen their bodies as he ran through the island on that fateful night. The knowledge came as no surprise. It was as if he could convey trauma through a stare.

 

It hurt nine-year-old Ange to think about death. It made her stomach churn and her throat burn with bile, as if she would become sick at the mere thought of her parents. Seeing their home brought back memories, and Ange didn’t want to remember those happy days. It simply made her too sad. Her lip trembled, and she clung to her brother with ferocity.

 

Battler noticed her expression, and he crouched down to her level. His hands brushed across her shoulders to grip her gently. He studied her face, his expression somber, but then Battler’s weathered features melted into a smile.   
  


“It’s time to go home, Ange. Isn’t that what you wanted?” When he saw tears collect in her eyes, he let out a breathy laugh. “There’s no need to cry. This is a happy day. You and I get to sleep in our beds and cook in our kitchen and watch TV. Won’t that be fun?”

 

Ange couldn’t answer him. She sniffled. It  _ did _ sound like fun. She was finally alone with Onii-chan. They wouldn’t have to live under the thumb of their tyrannical aunt anymore. Eva oba-san was always yelling at Battler with her shrill and hateful voice. She didn’t think he would be a good successor because she didn’t like him, and she didn’t like him because he was not George. Battler didn’t study! He didn’t try! He was good for nothing!  _ That boy will rob me blind until I’m in my grave!  _ Eva oba-san’s words stung Ange more than they did Battler. He was so patient with his aunt, and so kind.

 

But when Eva’s rage turned toward Ange…

 

There was a reason they were moving away. 

 

Ange thought being alone with her brother was more than she could dream of. She didn’t feel happy at that moment, but Ange thought she would love the time spent with Battler as her guardian. She forced a smile, but her lips still trembled. Children weren’t very good actors. 

 

When Battler saw her expression, he poked her cheek. 

 

“There it is!” He was always so playful. “We’ll love it. I moved in all of your furniture in yesterday, but you’ll have to help me decorate. I got you some new posters.” Battler turned toward their stoop. He left Ange swaying in the December wind. A strong gust ripped past her and she had to pull the strings of her raincoat closed. The weatherman predicted a storm on the television, so Battler covered her with sweaters and a jacket. Ange was sweating through her clothes, but she said nothing. She understood that Battler had to make a show of responsibility. The government people were always watching. He had to live up to their expectations. 

 

Life with Battler would be welcomed as a dream. Her life with her aunt was a nightmare. Ange had said as much when the social workers asked her. 

 

Ange watched as Battler unlocked the door. She could hear it click from where she stood-- or maybe she imagined the sound. Her recollection of that day was sharp, though Ange expected she unconsciously added embellishments. What she could remember with clarity was the moment when Battler held out his key.

 

It was easy for Ange to figure out what he wanted. She stepped up to her brother and took it, wrapping her little fist around the bronze key to her house. 

 

Battler grinned. “I thought you should be the first one inside, and I didn’t want you to embarrass yourself in case you couldn’t reach the lock.”

 

Ange’s face flushed. She stuck out her tongue to show him her displeasure. She was the shortest student in her class. Although she wasn’t made fun of, Battler certainly teased his sister about her height. She even moaned in irritation.

 

“Oniiii-chan! Be nice to me, you have to!”

 

With her brows knitted together, Ange marched to the door. It must have been comical to see her stalk up the stoop in her rubber galoshes, but Battler rested his hands on his hips with a look of satisfaction. Ange made a show of pushing open the door; she even held it open for her brother to walk through. That’s what proper grown ups did, after all. 

 

Battler ruffled her hair as he passed, threading his fingers through so that her pink hair clips clacked together. Ange pouted, but she couldn’t stop the smile which twisted her face into an odd grimace. Battler made a face in response. They stood in the doorway, laughing, holding each other, Ange’s head resting against his thigh, Battler’s hand on her shoulder. And when he was done loving her, Battler stepped away. Ange was still laughing because she didn’t anticipate the travesty they were approaching. 

 

“I thought it would be fun to walk down the street together, just you and me,” Battler said. He was looking over his shoulder at her as he walked down the hallway. He turned on lights as they went. “I came here this morning. Had to clean up.”

 

“Oh…” Ange peered around. The house was spotless. It was a bit unsettling-- you could tell it hadn’t been lived in for some time-- but she appreciated the time her brother spent building their perfect home. 

 

“I had some help too,” Battler continued. “I would be lying if I took all the credit… She would be upset if I didn’t praise her, especially since she can probably hear us.” He looked back at Ange, held up a finger, and  _ shoooooshed _ .

 

Ange stopped walking. She stared at Battler as he rubbed his head without looking at her. When he finally twisted around, his smile was sheepish. “I didn’t tell you? Beato’s staying with us.”

 

He didn’t tell her. Ange had always wondered if it had been purposeful. Had Battler forgotten the detail of Beato’s housing amidst the mountains of paperwork and legions of social workers which stood as obstacles to prevent him from securing his homestead? Or had he withheld the information from Ange, fearing her opposition and dreading her response at the revelation Beatrice would haunt their halls?

 

Ange knew it had been the latter, but she allowed her heart to bear the weight of two possibilities. Even as a woman, Ange loved Battler, and she lived with the hope he was only a confused, hapless idiot.  _ He’d been spellbound. _

 

“She’s very excited to see you,” Battler said, quietly. 

 

Ange blinked at him. “Beato is… excited?”

 

“Mhm!” He smiled softly and held out his hand. Ange tentatively accepted it, and Battler pulled her along. In her confusion, she forgot to move her legs, and she lurched forward, tripping on her shoes. “She told me this morning. That’s why we cleaned up. Beato really wants this to be perfect for you.” Battler hadn’t noticed her reluctance. It was either that or he pretended not to. 

 

“Uhm…”

 

The hall to the parlor was very short. They hadn’t lived in a sizable home, but to Ange the environment seemed larger than life. The girl was disconnected. Her legs moved of their own accord. 

 

She would realize later this was called a _ panic attack _ . But the Ange of 1989 only stumbled forward on a reluctant journey to meet the witch, and at the end of their of carpeting, she finally had to acknowledge Beatrice the Golden and Endless. 

  
That woman was always so frail. Even when she gained weight, she would shed it in pounds, a cyclic pattern of fragility. Her hand was white, eerily translucent. You could see blue veins move beneath her skin while she clutched the window pane. It was difficult to imagine she had other-worldly powers-- there was nothing grandiose about her mousey hair, hunched shoulders, and hopelessly  _ gray  _ eyes. They gazed into the yard, unfocused and glazed over.    
  
Beatrice was transfixed by the rain. It had only begun to fall moments before, and Ange wondered how long the witch had waited for it. Her pallor was so corpse like, the little girl hardly expected her to move when Battler called her name. Beatrice seldom responded. If her lover was lucky, she would only move her eyes to stare into his face, unseeing. Ange anticipated this response-- what she didn’t consider was the witch’s revival.

 

When Beatrice’s eyes traveled, they saw Ange for the first time. The pair blinked at each other. Battler laughed. When his voice brought color to the witch’s cheeks, Ange realized the woman before her could not possibly be a statue; her eyebrows turned up, her quiet eyes widened, and the witch named Beatrice  _ twisted _ around in her seat to see Ange. She didn’t have a flat stare; it was looking, studying, and observing. Her lips parted, but Ange had beaten her to it. The little girl’s mouth hung wide open. She had no choice but to acknowledge the presence of a witch in their living room.   
  
Out of her mouth came the terrible voice of a woman Ange had never known.

 

“Ah, Angeee~” The little girl’s name had been enunciated, almost sung to a tune. “I've waited a terribly long time to see you. It isn't often a witch waits on humans.”

 

Battler laughed. “That’s right. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other, hasn’t it, Ange?”

 

_ Who are you? _ she wanted so desperately to ask. It hung on her lips. It almost slipped out of her mouth, but even if Ange hadn’t vocalized her question, it showed on her face.

 

“Aren’t you going to say hello to the Golden Witch, Beatriiice?” Beato’s face twisted dramatically. It grotesquely resembled Ange’s expression, and the little girl wondered if it was a parody of shock. “I’m very disappointed. Muh~ hasn’t your brother taught you how to greet a lady?”

 

“Y...you’re Beatrice?” It was impossible. No, no-- she had never met this woman before. When she looked the witch straight in the face,  _ her eyes were blue _ .   
  
The witch cackled. “Of course, of course!” She looked at Battler over Ange’s head. “Can’t you tell her that I am indeed Beatrice?”

 

“In the flesh.” Battler laughed. Ange loved his laugh, but then she thought it was sinister. “Yup Ange, that’s really Beato. She’s doing a lot better. You can see it, right?”

 

Ange wasn’t sure if  _ this _ was better, but she was too afraid to do anything but nod along. The gesture proved to be satisfactory for Beato and Battler both. The chortled together. Ange couldn’t help but wonder why they found her violent disorientation funny. That was the needle which dug into Ange’s skin; her horror at realizing Battler didn’t care about her.   
  
“Ohoh! There’s no need to be afraid, Ange. I would never hurt someone Battler cared about so much.” Beato’s tone had softened. Her melodic voice put Ange somewhat at ease. If anything, she was at least glad Beato noticed her discomfort. “You were always so darling. Cutie.” The witch wiggled her index fingers into her dimpled cheeks. It was so childish, how could anyone be afraid?

 

Ange was afraid. No, she was  _ petrified _ . The doppelganger of a catatonic woman who Ange had lived with for three years sat in front of her, and her brother expected her to believe they were the same person. He was a liar. This was a farce. Make believe. Fantasy. Ange felt sick-- nooo, no-- she was most  _ definitely _ about to be sick. She-- She--

 

Battler planted a hand on her shoulder. He was smiling when she looked up at him, and all of her thoughts dissipated, washed over by a warm feeling of relief. Battler would help her, Battler would save her. He would clear up this nightmare and rescue her from the ensnarement of the witch.

 

But that fragile hope was dashed-- when Battler spoke. His words shattered around her. Like broken glass, like a nail gun fired at a coffin underground so that wood chips stung her face. She may have moaned, she may have said nothing at all. In fact, was it possible Ange had screamed? She certainly had, inside her head. Because what Battler said was…

 

“Beato wants to show you magic!”

 

Her knees hit the floor, and the world went black around her.

 

* * *

 

Beatrice cried when she fainted. 

 

Ange could only imagine the theatrical affair for she slept into the afternoon. She envisioned all of Beato’s dramatic meltdowns at once, a tantrum on a massive scale-- but when Battler told her story, it was gentle and somber and  _ sad _ . Perhaps the witch really had cried for her. Perhaps that girl, Sayo, had been in her place, sobbing on the windowsill, heart breaking over a child who could not, would not accept her. 

 

The knowledge changed her perspective of the event. Ange had felt powerless, but it was the witch who had succumbed, who had hung her head, who truly and deeply recalled the moment as a tragedy.

 

That made Ange feel good. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic! I hope y'all enjoy the ride. Hopefully this chapter is self-contained enough to stand on its own in case I don't finish it, but chapter 2 will likely be on its way before the month ends :)
> 
> Reviews are fun! Please leave comments~


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